


In the Absence Of

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Episode: Faith, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Protective Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing Scenes for 1.12 "Faith." They're both in new territory here, both uncomfortable with these roles. Sam, the caretaker, and Dean, the one needing care. The one needing a strong hand on his arm and another wrapped around his waist just to make it the fifteen steps across a small motel room to collapse into bed. Mild language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence Of

_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help._

Sam almost chokes holding back the hysterical laugh left bubbling at the back of his throat from the thought of Dean being in any sort of position to help _anyone_ right now. "Hey, Dad. It's Sam."

He's had three days to make this call, and has a few pathetically aborted messages under his belt already. Each time his call's gone unanswered and he's heard this recording, Sam's surprised himself by bailing out. Not making a statement by hanging up like the man probably deserves, but instead giving him the power and control, finishing with some half-assed, mumbled variation of "call me as soon as you get this."

Not _if. When._ Sam refuses to entertain _if._ The messages are going somewhere.

There's no bailing out, not this time, because even though saying the words and acknowledging it will make this terrible situation all the more _real_ , he's found a sliver of hope. Of, God help him, faith.

It's still not enough to keep him from getting a dig in where he can. "Uh…you probably won't even get this, but, uh…it's Dean. He's sick, and uh…the doctors say there's nothing they can do." Pushed out in one long breath, so he doesn't have to really stop and think about what he's saying, about how he's playing down a terminal diagnosis like his brother's simply home from school with the flu. Sam is eloquent at best and furious at worst, but he always has an impressive supply words at the ready. Right now, he can't seem to find any of the right ones, fumbling through this speech like he doesn't have it rehearsed, and like he isn't speaking – in a way – to his own father.

"Um." _Jackass_ , he berates himself. "But, uh, they don't know the things we know, right? So, don't worry, 'cause I'm, uh…gonna do whatever it takes to get him better." He's losing steam, exhaustion and adrenaline coming to blows in his pounding head, anger with Dad for not answering his calls leaking in through the cracks left from the melee to overpower his fear and worry for Dean.

Who is _he_ to not answer? He would rip each of them a new asshole for not picking up the phone, but now, when they really _need_ him, the man's nowhere to be found. As predictable an animal as ever.

"All right, just wanted you to know," Sam finishes, in another breathless stream and barely above a whisper. His thumb grazes the button to disconnect the call as he lets the phone drop from his suddenly lax fingers, and he drags a hangnail between his teeth to worry, because it's better than throwing the damn thing across the room.

An unexpected knock at the door draws Sam's gaze upward. It's late – enough – and no one knows he's here. The hospital staff all have his cell number, and the only other person who knows he's booked a room in this motel is...

He whips the door open and finds Dean leaning on the doorframe looking thin and sick and the complete opposite of himself in every other way imaginable. Not for the first time, Sam can't decide whether he wants to hug his brother or strangle him. He does neither. "What the hell are you doing here?"

It might be the wash of bright white light spewing from the face of the pop machine across the hall that's making Dean look so ghostly. Or it might just be Dean. "I checked myself out."

"What?" Sam splutters. He'd only left the hospital a few hours ago, for just long enough to catch a much-needed shower and even more-needed sleep while the ward was closed to visitors. "Are you crazy?"

"Well, I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot." Dean raises his shoulders and plasters on that shit-eating grin, but Sam's not buying it, not even with Monopoly money.

"You know, this whole I-laugh-in-the-face-of-death thing? It's crap. I can see right through it." But Sam's smiling when he says it, because he wouldn't expect any differently, and because if Dean's not going to take this lying down, then he stands a chance.

"Yeah, whatever, dude." Dean makes the turn into the room like he's drawn to the nearest flat surface, limping heavily with his elbows and hands searching for anything to assist in his walk. "Have you even slept? You look worse than me."

_Not possible._ Sam's seen his brother play hurt a dozen times. Seen him play through dislocated joints, broken bones, and horrifying hemorrhaging, and something inside him breaks when he catches Dean bow over and wince from the pain brought forth from the simple act of drawing in too deep a breath. He won't dare acknowledge it, but the discomfort's been a constant companion since he first woke in the hospital, too widespread and persistent to really answer questions of _where_ and _how bad._ Sam knows the nurses inquired as much at all the appropriate intervals, but every time he checked the pain chart on the wall in Dean's room, the level was documented as a 4, a typical enough response of Dean's for Sam to adjust the level for himself to a more likely 8.

He doesn't need the specifics of _where_ and _how bad;_ just knowing his brother's in any amount of pain is more than enough to bring Sam stepping in quickly, sliding an arm under Dean's to steady him on his way to the nearest chair. Dean doesn't shove him away, and that sets off all sorts of warning bells in Sam's already overtaxed mind. But he takes a page out of his brother's book and keeps his game face on. "I've been scouring the internet for the last three days. Calling every contact in Dad's journal."

_The live ones, anyway._ And it might be worthy of some kind of scholastic award, the way Sam's just summarized the past three days in so few words. A large portion of that internet scouring had taken place awkwardly folded into a stiff plastic chair he'd dragged as close to Dean's bed as he could manage without tangling the legs in any of the numerous cords and lines connected to his brother, intermittently staring at dangerously inconsistent vital readouts and keeping as quiet as possible while Dean fitfully attempted some medicinally-assisted rest. Rest necessary to regain the strength to pull himself out of the bed, though the doctors had said more than once that he was unlikely to do even that much before his heart finally gave out.

Yet here he stands, sort of. Because Dean is full of more strength than even _he's_ aware of, strength that can't be measured by lines and beeps and a pain level on a chart. But he's still clearly extremely unwell, and Sam has to wonder if Dean even _knows_ three days have passed since he went down in that basement, considering how little of that time he was actually both conscious and coherent.

Dean gives no hints either way, his expression not one of confusion nor acknowledgement, just weariness and pain as he sinks into the chair. "For what?"

"For a way to help you." Sam settles back on the edge of the bed he's managed a few hours of poor sleep in, perching atop an array of printouts and research. "One of Dad's friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska." And here is the tricky part, the part where his brother's life rests in the hands of hearsay, rumors and religious fanatics. The part Dean won't trust, not even a little. "A specialist."

He hopes it's not wishful thinking that lets a bit of relief bring some needed color to Dean's features. "You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?"

"I'm not gonna let you die, period." Sam's smile may be tired but it's genuine, the endgame in his sights. "We're going."

A car horn sounds from outside, a short, impatient burst hardly muffled by the thin, cheap walls and windowpanes of the motel.

Dean perks up a bit, then swallows and sags back in his seat, bracing a hand against his chest. "Oh, yeah. You're gonna need to pay that guy."

Sam frowns and rises stiffly from the bed. He crosses the room to the window and pushes the curtain aside to peer through the glass. "Who, the cab?"

"You think I walked here, Sam?" Dean snaps half-heartedly. "I could barely walk to this chair."

Sam turns sharply at the admittance, pauses with a hand gripping the thick polyester of the floor-length curtain.

This is how his brother always wins: just enough honesty to knock you off your game but not enough to knock Dean off his.

"And you've got my wallet." Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, jerks his chin back toward the door. The expression is right but seems so wrong, his complexion too pale, lines of pain tugging at his eyes with no outwardly visible source of discomfort to match them. "Hop to it, cheapskate."

Sam goes out to pay the fare, and Dean fixes his weary gaze on a circuit of the small motel room, drags his eyes up to meet his brother's as he steps back inside. God, even his _eyes_ hurt. "Two beds?" Dean wants to make a joke, _needs_ to make a joke, because he doesn't have an ounce of control over the situation or even of his own body, but he can't summon the energy.

Even Sam seems to be waiting for the punchline, rubs the back of his neck with a strange look when he figures out Dean's said his piece. He glances at the pair of beds, makes a face like he hadn't even realized the setup of the room before now. "Force of habit, I guess."

"Well, I gotta say, I'm not complaining." Dean has every intention of relocating his sorry ass to the bed not currently covered in Sammy's homework, but it seems so damn far away at the moment, and too much trouble to get himself there. He shifts in his seat, bringing about flares of pain varying between sharp and dull that radiate throughout his wrecked, weak body. He winces, leaning heavily on an armrest of the chair, and tries to buy himself some time. Sammy might be tired and a little slow, but he's still Sammy, for better or worse. Right now for better, because he's quite possibly the only person who can out-stubborn Dean Winchester, and that means they might actually come out the other side of this one. In the very least, he needs to let Sam think so, can't let himself stop taking care of the kid even though he can barely keep himself sitting up straight. "So, Nebraska?"

"Yeah." Sam fidgets near the door, looking at a loss. Looking young. Too young to be playing with the hand he's been dealt over the past few months.

"And we are?" Dean persists.

"North Creek, New York." Sam frowns. "Or…no. We had to…I mean, because of the…North Creek didn't have the facilities." He looks around the room, gaze landing on the motel notepad atop the bureau. He grabs it, squints tired eyes at the small print. "Glen Falls."

It's kind of nice that the kid thinks that means anything to Dean at the moment. "Nebraska?" he asks again, equal parts stall technique and unfortunate need for clarification. On a good day, he knows these interstates like the back of his hand, but this is maybe one of his worst days, and he currently knows only enough to be sure that's a long-ass haul from anywhere in New York, and he can't imagine making it. His days are only going to get worse. "That's gotta be a…what, like a twenty-hour drive?"

"Twenty-two, give or take. Yeah." Sam's really done his homework, has a plan all figured out. His phone makes some of kind of noise from where it's been discarded on the bedspread and he moves quickly to scoop it up, only to drop it back with palpable frustration.

_A call for help falling through?_ But Sammy's got an answer already, or so he says. Kid's tired. That much is obvious. Dean makes another slight shift in the chair, rolls his shoulders back and channels the resulting pain of the movement into another rough jerk of his chin. "You should get some sleep then."

Sam stares at him strangely, but that's the best Dean can do. There's just no way he can say it. No way he can say, _Sammy, man, this is gonna be on you, because there ain't a chance in hell I can take a shift behind the wheel._

Not when moving hurts.

And sitting hurts.

And breathing hurts.

And _being alive_ hurts.

Sam finally nods, stands hovering near one of the beds like he doesn't know whether he should sit or not. Like he doesn't know what Dean is going to need, or when.

And Dean really wishes he could help him out. He does.

"Did they give you any meds or instructions or…anything?" Sam finally asks.

_Tons._ But Dean doesn't exactly feel like spending his last days as a sedated and drooling idiot. He could've done that in the friggin' hospital bed. _I don't know the janitorial schedule here in bumfuck nowhere, Sammy, so they might still be in the trash can outside that place, you get back there quick enough._ "Uh, yeah," he says. "'Don't do this.'" He tries to soften it with a smile, but Sam reacts with the expected exasperation.

The kid runs both hands through his hair, locking his fingers behind his neck. "Did they tell you…I mean, I know the doctor said…" Sam bites his lip, hard, and fixes his eyes on a nondescript spot on wall.

_Did they tell me what, Sammy? That the estimation that son of a bitch gave you got sliced in half in the second I got up outta that bed?_

But if Sammy doesn't ask the question then Dean doesn't have to answer it, and that's an unspoken understanding they seem to agree on. But he doesn't have to voice the answer to _feel_ it. He can _feel_ his life trickling away with each sluggish pump of his basically worthless heart, such a basic and necessary function that the sensation of it never really registered before. He feels lousy in an all-encompassing and indescribable way, and he can't stay warm, toes frozen inside his boots and fingers tingling and purple from lack of circulation.

"This guy in Nebraska, he's the real deal," Sam says, quietly but firmly, because Dean's clearly doing a poor job of masking his discomfort. "We're gonna get you better, okay?"

"Sure thing, Sammy," Dean agrees, though it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to make those few words, and it suddenly feels like his head weighs more than it has any right to. Far too heavy to hold up any longer. But first, Sam, because there's no timeline on being a big brother. That's something that never stops. "After you get some sleep."

Sam almost laughs, and Dean guesses it's hard to miss the look of unbridled longing he's got fixed on the unoccupied bed across the room.

"Yeah, I don't think I'm the only one dragging ass, Dean." Sam looks back and forth between Dean and the bed, realizing his big brother's making no move to stand. "You need a hand?"

"No, I got it," Dean says, almost by reflex, his fingers curling around the narrow armrests in weary anticipation of the trip back to vertical. His legs feel tingly and detached from the rest of him, boots stuck in a pool of quicksand beneath the chair. He seems to have used up what pathetic little strength he had just getting to this damn chair, and forget getting out of it.

"Dean – "

"Sam..." Dean shakes his head in frustration, but he doesn't say no again.

Sam takes that as his cue, or at least, knows it's as much of one as he's likely to get. He also knows Dean's right, and he can't possibly ask his big brother to take control of that boat of a car, not when he's sagging in his seat, staying in the chair only by the white-knuckled grip he's got the armrests, without anything nearing the loud, obnoxious energy he usually does. Dean fills a room, but now he's hardly a presence to be felt on the outskirts.

They're both in new territory here, both uncomfortable with these roles. Sam, the caretaker, and Dean, the one needing care. The one needing a strong hand on his arm and another wrapped around his waist just to make it the fifteen steps across a small motel room to collapse into bed.

Dean's a light, rough sleeper; violent, almost. He tosses and turns and is prone to bouts of snoring when he's had a few rounds. It's not untypical for Sam to wake to see his brother twisted in his blankets in some contortion more fitting for a circus performer, or to find the covers kicked completely to the floor. And that's not even bringing into account the wicked sharp knife he keeps tucked under his pillow. It takes a fair amount of finesse and well-honed reflexes to wake Dean.

Tonight, it doesn't take any longer for an ill and exhausted Dean to fall asleep than it does for Sam to brush his teeth and change out of his jeans. And he's not just asleep, he's out, and still, and bundled beneath every available blanket, including the one Sam had moved over from his own bed when his brother had seemed reluctant to shed the thick hooded sweatshirt Sam had left behind in the hospital.

He's exhausted, too, but Sam stands next to his brother for a long time, unable to tear himself away as he listens to Dean struggle and stutter through every exhale and holding his own breath as he waits for each subsequent inhale.

Even as he's staring down at Dean, the motel room feels noticeably odd and extremely empty, like Sam's somehow even more alone now than he was before his brother appeared on the doorstep.

It IS Dean, he realizes, or a lack thereof. Sam _just_ got his brother back in his life, and even though it'd seemed so easy for them to split up just a few short days ago, it was anything but. And now, without that cushion of anger softening the blow of his brother's absence, he can't do it. He can't do this.

He can't live through the pain of losing someone else, and it sure as hell can't be Dean that he loses.

********************************************************************

_Dean kicks his way out of the car, follows Sam around to where the moody ass is already pulling his belongings from the trunk. "You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" Screw the salt gun, and screw Ellicott's ghost. If the son of a bitch hadn't pointed a pistol at Dean's face and pulled the trigger three goddamn times just the night before, this entire conversation might be playing out a hell of a lot differently. Because Dean knows this isn't like him, even as he's saying it. "You just do whatever you want. Don't care what anybody thinks."_

_"That's what you really think?"_

_No, he doesn't, not really. All Dean thinks is_ , just STOP, Sammy. _But what he says is, "yes, it is."_

_Sam absorbs the intended blow of the words like it barely even registers, and hikes the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. "Well, then this selfish bastard is going to California."_

_"Come on, you're not serious."_

_"I am serious."_

_"It's the middle of the night!" Dean might not have learned how to fight watching Dad and Sam, but it's certainly his most recent frame of reference. It doesn't feel natural, or right, but he's pissed and tired and fuck if he doesn't have a chest still stinging and ripped apart by rock salt, so he launches a threat at his little brother that he has no intention of following through on. "Hey, I'm taking off. I will leave your ass, you hear me?"_

_Sam spins on his heel, meets Dean's eyes. "That's what I want you to do." Cool and cocky and calling his bluff._

_It stings, but he can't let Sammy win. He can't let Sammy always win. "Goodbye, Sam," Dean says, ripping the keys from the trunk with such force he'll have a mark across his palm for a week. He lets the anger choose his words and guide him to the driver's seat. It's been a long few days and neither of them is well-rested or thinking clearly, and Dean doesn't stop to listen to reason or logic or the nagging sense of obligation he's been hauling around since the day Sammy was born._

_He grips the steering wheel tightly and stomps a heavy boot on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor. He doesn't spare a glance at the rearview, doesn't want to know if his brother is looking back or not._

_He thinks that will make it easier to leave Sammy behind, but it doesn't._

Dean startles awake on a sharp inhale that doesn't feel at all like it gets to where it's meant to go. He gasps, chokes, and makes all manner of spectacle of himself that only serves to coat this situation with a lot more drama than is warranted.

"Hey, hey," Sam reacts, just as startled and reaching over to press a hand gently against Dean's chest, keeping him upright against the seatback. "You okay?"

_Not even a little bit._ "Yeah, I'm fine." Dean jogs his shoulder to shuck Sam's hand, the motion sending a lance of pain through nearly every damn inch of him. His left hand curls instinctively to his chest while the fingers of his right searches out the dash in front of him, and he keeps from crumbling to the floor mat only by the mercy of a shaky arm and a hell of a lot of willpower.

The car. They're in the Impala, making what feels like damn good time towards this "specialist" in Nebraska. Dean had been so caught up in the dream, brought back so convincingly to that empty, inky dark road at midnight, that the sunlight currently streaming into the car is a shock to a system that's already pretty well shocked. He could have done with a bit more sleep before they took off this morning, obviously, but Sam was anxious to get this show on the road at the asscrack of dawn. Another force of habit, and one that's left Dean nodding off every hour or so. He's blaming the habit, and not his bum ticker, because if he doesn't acknowledge the defect, then he has to believe it won't take him down.

Sam sighs and shakes his head as he turns his attention back to the dark interstate stretching ahead, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, "you're not fine, you jerk."

Dean's never been one to put much stock in dreams, but the timing of this one is no coincidence. He's gotten a taste for leaving, and while it might be a bitter one, he can understand a little better than before the statement being made by walking away. But this type of leaving…this isn't a statement. There isn't even a meaning or purpose to be assigned to his death. This is simply one ill-advised action, bad luck, and nothing more than the proverbial short straw.

Sam's got more than a taste for leaving – he has an affinity for it. But not now, thank God, or whatever, and Dean owes him something for that. Owes him the words at least. He pushes away from the dash, feeling a bit steadier, and grimaces as he settles back against the stiff bench seat. He squints as the sun hits him squarely in the eyes. "Thanks, Sammy."

"For what?"

"For…I don't know." Dean sighs. _Isn't_ thanks _enough?_ "For not giving up on me, I guess. For not leaving me in that hospital." Yet, somehow, he finds the words easily enough.

Words that his brother seems to take immediate offense to. Maybe this is why Dean doesn't do all this touchy-feely crap. Sam tightens his grip around the steering wheel and clenches his jaw. "I'm only gonna say this one time, Dean. There's no way in hell I was going to just… _leave_ you there."

Dean holds his breath as another flash of agony ignites in his chest. They're hundreds of miles past second thoughts at this point, but maybe he should have taken along a handful of whatever pills they'd tried to push on him back in the hospital. Once the pain passes – or at least fades to something still present but a bit more manageable – he leans his temple against the relative comfort of the cool window and traces the fading red line across his palm, thinking back on his dream, on that cold night not far enough behind in the rearview. "Well, I did just leave you on the side of the road in the middle of the night."

Sam hears it as a joke, or maybe he just really wants to. Wants to read no further into this moment than a much-needed opportunity to toss a few digs back and forth without really meaning anything by it, because anything else will sound like _goodbye._ Dean seems all serious and in a fair amount of pain, worrying some random mark on his right hand with eyes that are dark, faraway and directed at some spot out of the window on which he's so heavily leaning. Directed anywhere but at Sam, the true tell of some truth being spoken.

And it hits him like a punch to the gut as he realizes, some part of Dean EXPECTED Sam to leave him there in that hospital, to move on. Whether to find Dad like he'd intended or avenge Jess's killer, or rekindle some attempt at a life away from hunting, Dean had taken himself of the equation, figuring he wasn't a key piece in Sam's master plan. And Sam has only himself to blame for allowing his brother to harbor such misconceptions.

This injury might have put into stark reality that he's been caught taking for granted that Dean will always be around, but Sam also now realizes that's not a luxury his big brother has ever had. Dean's never expected _anyone_ to stick around for long, perhaps least of all his family. And Sam's certainly not done himself any favors in that regard. He's not sure he can count on just one hand the number of times he's looked his brother in the eye, lied as easily and steadily as if he was stating the time, and taken off at the first available opportunity.

His eyes slide slowly and somewhat guiltily to where Dean is slumped against the car door, reacting when he sees his brother's eyes closed and his chin dipping toward his chest. "Dean."

Dean jerks upright, frowning deeply as he gingerly rotates his body on the bench seat to face Sam, his left hand tightening into a white-knuckled fist against the leather. "What?" he demands, irritated, though it's unclear how much of the emotion is simply for show, simply his stubborn and closed-off brother thinking strength means _pissed._

"You're drifting again, man." It's not that the guy couldn't use some sleep, but even with the extreme direness of their situation, Sam's conscience won't allow for the majority of that sleep to take place in the car. Despite his intentions, it's been near-impossible for him to keep his brother awake throughout this trip. "We need to stop somewhere?"

Dean rolls his eyes, twisting back to square up against the seatback. "No, I'm okay."

"You're not – " Sam stops himself this time, from leveling another concern and frustration-laden accusation at his brother. He sighs, and his eyes catch sight of his watch face as he grips the wheel. His stomach is quick to confirm that it's nearing time to start entertaining some idea of dinner. "Then how about some food?"

"I'm okay, Sam. Really."

But before they'd hit the road Dean had passed on breakfast for maybe the first time ever, and each offer to pull off somewhere around midday for any sort of organized sit-down lunch had been waved off. They'd settled for a brief perusal of a gas station market, and Sam had made slow work of a turkey sandwich between Mentor and Cleveland while Dean picked disinterestedly at a bag of barbeque potato chips for quite a bit farther. "You're not hungry?"

Dean jerks his head roughly, then sucks in a harsh breath and stills, closing his eyes briefly like the inside of the car is spinning around him. "No."

Sam needs to get Dean out of the car for a bit, give him the opportunity to move about in a new environment and stretch his stiff, sore body. And now that he's _really_ thinking about it, Sam can't actually remember when his brother last really ate something, and maybe the guy shouldn't be in charge of deciding these things. He's not anywhere near his best and needs to keep his strength up, and that bag of chips still seems pretty full where it's been discarded against the floor mat. "I think we should find somewhere to pull off, get you something to eat."

"I'm okay, Sam."

Law was a study and profession that promised safety in a way no other facet of his life had, but Sam's got a whole heap of various skills not learned in school, including an impressive medical acumen that's been compiled through experience, built on-the-fly and as they've gone along. He has a lot of knowledge and a disturbing amount of first-hand first aid know-how. He can stitch and bandage and throw around a decent-enough assessment to gauge the severity of a concussion, but everything going on inside of Dean is well beyond the scope of Sam's capabilities. Even so, it doesn't take a professional to assess that the man is far from _okay._ He's just the shadow cast by everything Dean's meant to be.

Caught up in his own musings, Sam easily enough ignores his brother's latest spew of dismissive crap, squinting instead at an approaching sign on the side of the interstate. "Looks like there's something up here."

Dean shakes his head. Kid's not even listening to him, which is just as well, he supposes. If this grand plan of Sam's turns out to be for naught, they're only days away from funeral arrangements, and at that point Sammy will have to get used to making decisions. Again. Not that he's ever really needed a push to do so.

He can't even pretend to have an appetite, and just the idea of having to get out of the car and force his body to move to a new location only to get back in the car again all seems like way too much work to entertain at the moment. Dean exhausts himself just thinking about it, but Sam's already guiding the Impala toward the next exit ramp, not taking Dean's vote into account.

It's a small, out of the way town they've pulled off in, and the diner Sam had spotted is sparsely populated, even at the height of dinnertime. Still, every pair of eyes in the restaurant cautiously tracks Dean as they make their way slowly to a booth at the back. He looks like shit in an ill sort of way but it's pretty painfully obvious he's not sick with anything you can catch, and the expressions of the other patrons fall quickly enough to pity as their gazes shift to Sam, the weary, put-upon caretaker.

Dean might have been the one to haul him back into this life but he never intended to be a burden on his brother, and he shouldn't have allowed Sammy to invest so much of his own well-being into saving him. Not when he isn't sure he's got enough to offer to be worthy of such effort. He's just the muscle of the operation; not even his heart can handle the demands of the job.

Sam makes a big show of assisting him in getting settled into the booth, but it feels more like being pawed and manhandled with more force than is necessary so Dean swats him away, channeling his frustration with himself into annoyance with his little brother.

Sam raises his hands and backs away, sliding easily onto the opposite bench and reaching immediately for a plastic-y folded menu.

Dean mirrors the motion, laying a second menu open in front of him on the lacquered tabletop amidst a dozen overlapping stains left by water glasses. He drops his heavy-feeling arms, settling his frozen hands awkwardly into his lap, and stares down at the torn, creased pages. Conversation picks up around them, a muted buzz that teases his ears and prods a slight headache, but doesn't hold his attention enough to distinguish any of the words.

"Anything look good?" Sam asks, somewhat hopefully and having probably already picked out whichever plate of sparsely dressed lawn clippings seemed the most appealing.

And, sure; lawn clippings aside, it all looks good. But Dean's eyes aren't communicating properly with his stomach. He knows what he wants. That's easy.

He wants coffee, hot and strong and black. He wants a frosty mug of ice cold beer, something hoppy that will stick to his ribs. He wants a glass of the good whiskey Dad used to buy – and more importantly, share – at the end of a successfully concluded hunt. He wants a big, juicy hamburger piled high with crispy strips of hickory-smoked bacon and at least two different kinds of cheese melting on top, and seasoned wedge-cut fries on the side.

But, just as he'd been warned, the nausea's become as much a part of him as the steady pain pounding away inside his chest, and he curls his lip at the faded pictures of meals on the menu.

"Dean?"

He looks up, meets Sam's concerned, wide-eyed gaze and realizes they're no longer alone at the booth, that a not completely unattractive waitress with stringy blonde hair is tapping a pen against her pad and giving him a much less patient and understanding look.

Dean grins, aiming for something easy and flirty but knows he's failing on both accounts. "Nothing for me, thanks."

"You need to eat something," Sam whispers harshly across the table. His eyes scan his menu and he raises his eyebrows. "Soup, yeah?" And then to the waitress, "What kind of soups do you have?"

"Just chicken noodle."

Dean's stomach churns at the thought and he sighs, laying a hand flat against the tabletop. "Really, I'm – "

"He'll have that."

"Sam – "

"Okay, okay. And a side of fries."

The waitress tires of them, jots it down and rolls her eyes then moves away before Sam can do Dean another undeserved and unwanted favor.

"Sam." Dean sighs, and waits for his little brother to meet his eyes. But when he does, they're brimming with such fleeting youth and hopeful concern, Dean can't get a grasp on any of the words he'd meant to say, and he simply shakes his head.

They wait in silence for their dinners, because any conversation would seem forced or irrelevant. Dean is content to watch the sun set outside the streaky diner window, and Sam's phone serves as a decent enough distraction as it makes various chimes at random intervals, just as it always has. And just as he always has, Dean assumes it's more of his abandoned friends checking in on him. But each time his little brother glances at the device, his scowl deepens and he seems more and more perturbed by something he's seeing there on the screen, or maybe by something he isn't.

When the food arrives at the table Sam digs into his wilted salad like it's the greatest thing to ever be put on a plate, and Dean warms his hands around the mug of hot, watery soup set in front of him, but can't fathom swallowing more than a couple of mouthfuls. He manages that much, and a few of the smaller fries, to appease whatever unwarranted guilty conscience Sammy has weighing him down. Unwarranted because Dean did this to himself. _End of story._

When his stomach protests the pathetic little he's succeeded in putting down, Dean pushes the bowl and plate away, drawing another eyebrow raise from Sam, but his brother doesn't voice his disapproval. It's freezing in the restaurant, despite the heat running loudly overhead. Sammy had put them in a booth directly beneath one of the vents, but it's ineffective, because Dean's veins feel leaden and frigid, weighed down with ice that won't thaw no matter how much heat is kicking.

He hunches over on the bench and burrows deeper into his layers, until the soft, worn cotton of the hooded sweatshirt brushes against his ears. Sam takes the hint and motions for the waitress to bring their check, though he eyes Dean's unfinished meal with a worried, wary look.

Sam seems to know Dean's thinking about getting vertical before he's even decided for himself, and hurries to extricate his own giraffe legs from beneath the table so he can lend a hand. Dean might not be fit to be running any marathons, but he's only looking to _stand_ and _walk_ and he's been doing both of those since long before Sammy was born, and surely he can handle that much on his own.

Dean pushes up stubbornly from his seat, sticking out a hand to steady himself against the top of the vinyl booth and waving his brother away with the other. "Sam, knock it off. I'm – " The objection escapes the reach of his lips just as the world falls away beneath him.

The rough, split fabric of the seat cushion is suddenly gone from under his fingertips but he's kept upright by a strong, firm hand around his upper arm. Though Dean's not sure that's really saying much in his current state. He gasps from the bruising force of Sam's grip and tries to wrench away, though the interior of the diner hasn't quite seen fit to right itself just yet.

Sam seems to get the message, loosens his hold but won't completely let go. He's talking, saying something to someone but it's difficult to surmise the specifics through the pounding in Dean's head, his brother's voice sounding muddy and warbled to his ears.

Spots dance in front of Dean's eyes and a now-familiar slow, sluggish feeling drags against his body, limbs tingling and weighed down. Sam's still talking to someone over Dean's head as he adjusts his grip, pressing down on Dean's shoulder in a wordless suggestion that he sit back down.

His face is the shade of a sheet of paper, as the napkin dropped from Sam's lap to the sticky diner floor as he'd started to rise and assist his brother, as he'd watched Dean stand abruptly only to nearly collapse when the world seemed to shift under his feet.

"He's okay," Sam quickly assures the white-faced waitress gaping in the aisle. "He's just been a bit under the weather lately." He swallows, jerks his chin toward the cold, drizzly nightfall looming outside the diner. "Flu season, you know?"

She nods slowly and sets their check on the table with a shaky hand, then backs away with hurried steps to join a cluster of her whispering coworkers where they're gawking from behind the register.

The way Sam's heart is galloping against his ribcage, he can only imagine how Dean must be feeling. He gives his brother's shoulder a gentle squeeze, forces into his voice a strength and stability they _both_ need. "How ya doin', man?"

Dean winces, weakly trying to shrug him away. "Sam, I'm – "

The fingers gripping Dean's shoulder tighten until Sam draws a wince from his brother. He jerks away then, takes a step back from the table. "Don't say you're fine, Dean. Say anything but that."

In an unanticipated and uncharacteristic show of self-awareness and acquiescence, Dean only nods, and makes no further move to get up from the table until Sam has taken care of the bill and returns to the booth to retrieve him.

They're young and reckless and usually quick to embrace both, and if this was just another hunt in Nebraska they'd get back on the road and drive through the night, chugging coffee and arguing over the music. But Sam doesn't feel either at the moment, and he's not really sure he knows what happened just now, how close a call that near-collapse truly was. He finds the nearest motel and gingerly ushers his big brother inside.

*********************************************************************

He's tired, in a full-body exhaustion sort of way that's not an unfamiliar feeling, not in this life, not when it seems like they're always taking blows. But aside from that, now that he's lying down and not moving, Dean's feeling under the weather but pretty okay. Then his heart gives an unexpected hiccup and he can't find his next breath, and there's a brief flash of panic and terror as his body wars with itself until the rhythm settles in his chest and he manages to pull in a lungful of oxygen.

Across the room, Sam hasn't even noticed the struggle, glaring down at his silent cell phone with a look Dean now recognizes, even if he hasn't seen it in a while. There's only one thing – only one _man_ – who can paste that sort of unchecked fury across Sammy's features.

He's wanted to ask at least a dozen times since he woke in the hospital, but there never seemed to be a good time, and he has to figure that's information Sam would have volunteered. He doesn't want to fight now, not with Sammy, but there's something here weighing in the room that needs to be addressed. Dean swallows and shifts against the pillows beneath his head, attempts to drag himself upright into a position more suitable for a conversation to take place on equal footing.

Before he can speak, the phone chimes.

The beep announces a new email, not a call, not a text, not Dad, but Sam still jumps at the sound, drawn to grab the device and confirm with not only his ears but his eyes that it's not his father checking in on Dean. There's no discrete way to put the phone to the side at this point, and no way to play this off as anything other than it is. Dean's sick and weak, but he's certainly not an idiot.

Dean's already pulled himself up, the stack of pillows Sam had so carefully assembled squashed behind his shoulder blades. He rolls his head against the headboard and blinks his heavily shadowed eyes at Sam like the pieces of a puzzle are falling into place. "You called Dad?"

"Yeah." _Of_ course _I did, Dean. Now please leave it at that_ , Sam begs his brother as he tosses his phone to the tabletop like an offensive, unwanted item, but Dean doesn't ever quite listen when he should. Not to Sam, at least.

"And?" The look in Dean's eyes is that of a hopeful child, a look Sam knows he often bore himself when he was young and still naïve to what was really going on beyond Dean's excuses and the moldy walls of whatever motel Dad had dumped them in for the weekend. This looks says quite simply, _when will Dad be home?_

And all Sam has to offer him is the only answer ever he got himself. He plants his hands on his hips and shakes his head, communicating _no_ and _I don't know_ and _stop asking so many questions._

Dean's face falls, but he still can't seem to stop himself from being the good son and doing the honorable thing. "Sam, don't. I mean, he's probably – "

"Don't you say a word, Dean," Sam snaps, "or I swear to – " He bites off the threat, because he wasn't raised to make idle ones, and his brother looks like he'd lose a round with a strong breeze right now. "Just…get some sleep, okay? You need it, and we've got hours left to go tomorrow."

Dean slumps back to the mattress and drifts off almost on command, without another word, and it's almost terrifying to watch. But Sam can't not watch, and can only think, _Dad should be here._

Can only think, _I hope he's dead._

He recoils from the thought but he's had it before, more than once, though always out of anger and not in years. So it's not an unfamiliar thought but it still gives him pause, because he's just now realizing that he's never really _meant_ it. But it's the only thing he can think that explains why the phone hasn't rang. Why the man isn't in this room with them right now.

He must be dead. No other explanation will ever grant him a pass for this moment.

Sam's finally found the line, between _inexcusable_ and _unforgivable._

He pitches his cell phone across the dark motel room, where it strikes the wall with a _crack_ and thuds to the thin carpeting. Both sounds resonate through the cramped space but Dean doesn't so much as twitch from the racket.

_A couple of weeks._

_At most, maybe a month._

He gives sleep a go, but the thought keeps Sam awake through the night, has wormed its way into his brain and set up shop in a dark corner so isolated and deeply buried that he can't quite eject it in favor of another. Of _any_ other.

_Maybe a month._

He hears it clear as a bell each time Dean's uneven breaths catch and whistle from the next bed.

Sam listens to the agonizing sounds all night. He can't allow himself to fall asleep, because his brother can't stay in any one position for longer than a few minutes before it pains him. It seems worse this night than the night before, and Dean isn't always able to wake enough, isn't always strong enough, to shift on his own. His breath stutters first, like it's caught in his chest and may very well be his last one, and then he keens low and wounded on a rough, stubborn exhale and that's as much as Sam can handle: that unguarded noise of pain escaping his brother.

He's by Dean's side in a flash after that, helping him roll to his back or move his arm into a new angle that softens the lines of pain and discomfort around his eyes, then settles back onto his own bed, and waits for the next unintended call of distress.

_Maybe a month._

Maybe if he still had doctors and nurses caring for him, Sam muses bitterly. Days, they might be reduced to now. Dean is stubborn to a fault, and exactly as bullheaded as he's always accused Sam of being. He didn't do well by himself, checking out of that hospital, and made it even worse by not having even the smallest hints to offer Sam on how to keep him comfortable. No prescriptions, no doctor's orders or recommendations. Not even a goddamn pamphlet. And he checked out without knowing Sam had this plan involving Roy LeGrange, knowing only that he was doomed to slowly waste away, and he chose to do so in the company of his clueless and ill-prepared little brother.

Sam turns his head to stare at the alarm clock on the squat table nestled between the two beds, counts the minutes off until enough have passed that he can wake Dean without feeling like a total dick by doing so.

He drags himself from his bed and crosses to his brother's side, crouching near his head. If Dean was feeling well, there's no way Sam would get this close without the business end of a knife in his face, but he sleeps on, in obvious discomfort but not at all aware of the presence within striking range. It's only been a few days, and Dean is trying to act as normal as he can, but it's getting harder and harder to see his older brother in this sick man.

Sam sets a tentative hand on Dean's shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. "Dean."

His brother frowns in response of the quiet call, but doesn't wake.

Sam sucks in a breath and jostles him with a bit more force, encourages Dean in the direction of rousing with a more firm, "hey, Dean. Rise and shine, man."

Dean growls a wordless argument but works his eyes open, blinks up at Sam.

"Our, uh, appointment is at five, and we've still got a hell of a lot of driving to do today." Sam pats his brother on the shoulder and hates that he knows he's in very little danger of having his bullshit called this morning.

He's awake, mostly, but it's a long, slow process before Dean's gathered enough strength to do so much as pull himself vertical on his own. Sam hovers so close it's frustrating for both of them, and by the time he's deposited Dean into a chair at the table, he seems exhausted and shadowed all over again. Dean's quiet, and appears to have as much on his mind this early morning as Sam does himself, eyes dark and pensive, betraying deeper thoughts than he would prefer to cop to. Maybe even thoughts that run parallel to those that are plaguing Sam.

_A couple of weeks_ , the doctor had said. _At most, maybe a month._

Now, if Joshua's intel turns out to be bogus, if LeGrange is a fraud and this trip turns out to be for naught, Sam might be lucky to have mere hours left with his brother, who has always BEEN THERE, even when he wasn't physically _there_. He was still a phone call away, an unquestionable truth Sam never took advantage of when he could or should have.

Sam's always had a difficult time organizing his most serious thoughts into words he can speak, and he turns instead to organize the bags to be loaded back into the trunk. An inherited family defect, it turns out. There's so much he should tell his brother, while he has the chance. He doubts it'll make much difference now, but there's so much Dean should know, just in case.

But because he's his father's son through and through, all Sam can manage is a smile so big and forced it may as well have been drawn on a piece of paper and taped over his mouth, and a softly spoken, "it'll be okay, Dean," though he doubts the reassurance does much for either of them.

Dean watches Sam flit around the room and pack up a mess that seems disproportionate for the time they actually spent in the room. He hadn't thought it was possible to feel worse this morning than he did last night, yet here he is. And beneath the pain and weakness and fear he can't feel even a sliver of the hope Sam is so desperately clinging to.

It's nice for Sam to keep saying things will work out, but it's not okay. It's really, truly, unbelievably NOT okay. And it won't be. He's been putting on the ruse himself, saying he's fine and okay but the truth is Dean feels like nothing more than unfinished business personified, with Dad still missing and probably dead and the thing – the demon – that killed Mom still in the wind. And with unfinished business, well, Sammy's not gonna like what he's going to have to do. But that doesn't mean he's not going to have to do it. "Sam, hold up a sec."

Sam jerks his head, sending his hair whipping across his forehead, and continues to cram wadded clothing into his camo backpack. "No, Dean."

Dean straightens in his seat, and it takes a fair amount of effort. "What do you mean 'no'? You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"I'm pretty sure I do, and no, Dean. We're not gonna do this right now. We're not _ever_ going to do this."

"SAM." He manages to rustle up enough strength in his voice, in that single word, to stop his brother in his tracks. Sam stands blinking in the middle of the room with an armful of toiletries from the small bathroom while Dean bows over from the energy expended, knuckles white around the arm of the chair. His silver ring thuds softly against the cheap wood as his hands tremble. "Sit the hell down."

Sam sighs and turns, dropping shaving kits and tiny shampoos bottles to bounce and scatter across the nearest bedspread. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face before slowly lowering himself stiffly to the very edge of the bedspread, facing Dean. "Don't do this, Dean."

"Sammy…" Dean rubs his cold hand across his chin. "Look, man. I don't know who or what it is waiting for us at the finish line in Nebraska."

"I told you, it's a special – "

"I know what you told me, Sammy." But Dean also knows how Sam operates, and he can't help the nagging feeling in his gut that this is just another half-truth the kid hopes he can get away with due to the sheer desperation of the situation. They learned different techniques from their father. "And I trust you." _I have to._ "So I trust that you know what you've gotta do, if this trip doesn't pan out."

Sam's jaw ticks, and his head jerks around. He pulls his lower lip beneath his teeth and bites down, and when he looks back at Dean there are tears in his eyes. "Don't ask me to do that, Dean."

Wincing against an ache building in his chest, Dean squares his shoulders against the back of the chair and meets his brother's eyes. He looks past the emotion to lock gazes with the hunter buried beneath it. "I'm not asking."

"I won't do it."

Dean swallows roughly, coughs a little. "Yes, you will."

Sam explodes off of the bed. "No, I won't, Dean!" He spins away, dragging both hands through his hair and leaving it sticking up in all directions. "Dammit!"

His heart beats out a rapid, uneven response to the yell and Dean means to shove up from his own seated position, to match Sam in fierceness and volume but he doesn't make it all the way there. A vice squeezes his chest and slows time, just like the night before in the diner yet somehow worse. The air is sucked from his lungs, and everything goes black.

He's not sure how much time passes, but when the spots scurry out of view, when he's breathing again and the pounding in his head has receded and he can push through the steady, heavy ache in his chest, Dean's aware of one of Sam's strong, warm arms looped around his back, and the other wrapped across his middle and keeping him mostly upright. He can feel the hurried thump of his brother's own heart against his ear. "Dude," he rasps. "Are you hugging me?"

"Of course not." Sam's voice has an uncharacteristic shake to it, and damn if the kid doesn't pull him even closer. "That would be weird."

*********************************************************************

_I don't understand the blind faith you have in the man._

He'd meant it at the time, but now…well, isn't blind faith kind of what Sam is going all in on here?

The episode in the diner was a frightening moment for both of them but whatever happened in the motel room this morning felt like dying, even for Sam.

He presses harder on the gas as the signs whizzing past from the side of the road declare their destination is drawing nearing, pushing the Impala faster and faster until she growls in response to the treatment and Dean straightens in his seat.

"Jesus, Sammy," he softly complains, but doesn't tell him to ease up on the accelerator. He's plenty shaken by what happened earlier, scared even, but it's not enough to keep him from succumbing to the demands of his weakened body, and it's not three miles before he drifts off again, pulling in shallow, rapid breaths with his temple tipped precariously against the window.

Sam's hot in the car, uncomfortable, but despite the heater rattling at full blast and his brother swallowed by layer upon layer of sweatshirt and jacket, Dean's skin is pale and cool, the warmth and life in him leaching out with each passing minute.

They'd been raised to anticipate every horror that might be lurking around each corner, and have had countless emergency protocols for worst case scenarios drilled into their heads. And while Dean might be ready to entertain the looming practicality of some of those lectures and lessons, Sam won't allow for such thought to pollute his belief that the answer to this nightmare lies at the end of this road.

It HAS to.

John Winchester cuts people out of his life as soon as they stop being useful, and for Joshua to be someone Sam was not only able to successfully reach out to but to have actually called him back, that makes him as reliable as the most heavily vetted source.

Sam's said some pretty awful things about his brother – and _to_ his brother – and horribly recently, but he didn't really mean any of it, whether Dean believes him or not. Dean's always been there for Sam, even when he didn't want or appreciate it, pulling him out of real and figurative fires his entire life. All he _does_ is save and protect Sam, and now he has the opportunity to return the favor. This isn't going to be the end for Dean. Not a routine takedown in a damp basement. Not this type of slow, painful demise. Not without Dad.

Dad might be Dean's hero, but Dean is Sam's, since they were kids.

And heroes don't die.

The rain picks up in force as the paved road ahead gives way to gravel, and one of the tires dips suddenly into a deep rut. The jostle of the large car jerks Dean awake away just in time to see the large tent rising in the middle of a lot crowded with parked vehicles and slow-moving people bogged down by various illness and injury.

Sam shoots a glance to the cargo on his right, his heart pounding with adrenaline, fear and anticipation, but Dean's own heart can't even keep him warm. It's now or never. The answer lies right here, or perhaps nowhere.

Dean's awake, sort of, but sluggish in fully rousing and looks to have no interest whatsoever in dragging himself upright. Sam reaches over, prods him gently in that direction with a hand on his shoulder.

Dean's reluctantly allowed just a little bit of hope to slip past his considerable defenses, because Dad's lost in who-the-hell-knows and if he's going to trust anyone right now, it's gonna have to be Sam. No matter how many times he's been burned by his brother, Sammy always comes through in the end.

"What?" he asks, forcing some irritation into his weak, raspy voice.

Sam swallows. "We're here."

**********************************************************************

_End_


End file.
